‘But I Can Do That’: How to Shut Up and Look at Art

Installation view of One Day at a Time: Manny Farber and Termite Art, October 14, 2018–March 11, 2019 at MOCA Grand Avenue, courtesy of The Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, photo by Zak Kelley

There’s a particular breed of people one can always find standing before yet another seemingly blank canvas—eyes wide, brows serious, their insufferable spectacle frames trained on a plain of white paint for what feels like hours. I used to think, “These folks really are about to burst with hot air. What on Earth can they be looking at for so long?” Seriously, who stares at a piece of still, unchanging art like they're trying to upstage Marina Abramovic? But time has done its persistent, humbling work, and now—just a touch less righteous—I find myself enthralled by details I once dismissed or overlooked completely. I stand enamored with texture, with movement trapped beneath varnish. I discover an almost absurd and shameful joy in the color, form, and suggestion.

And then—of course—someone, invariably a man with the voice of someone who has never loved anything quietly or with significance, leans to his unfortunate audience and announces, “Christ, even I could do that.” I then feel the most overwhelming desire to seize him (and, perhaps, the smug little version of myself that once agreed with him) by the collar, to slam his eyes within a hair of said work, and hiss, Look. Shut the fuck up and just look.

This is dedicated to those who don’t voraciously consume art history and aren’t really interested in starting but still want (or have no choice but) to engage more deeply with what they’re looking at. And rest assured, you won’t need to pretend to understand some grand elusive thing. The significance of a painting doesn’t lie solely or even primarily in what it supposedly means. That’s a trap—a lie created and pushed by the insecure and irrelevant. Cast that infuriating myth that out of your skull and try the following instead.

Step One: Get Out There

While there is much to be observed on a screen, nothing compares to seeing a work in person. Is this elitist? Perhaps. I suggest eating a billionaire or calling your local representative to address the issue fully. There are infinite reasons to go see art IRL, one being the surprise you may feel when you’re inevitably dwarfed by the size of a canvas or wall; engulfed by the colors and textures. Feel free to take things personally. Feel harassed by the sheer size or direction of certain lines. Absorb the tension derived from the distance between the work and yourself. You could easily ruin this massive thing that demands respect. Keep those intrusive thoughts to yourself. Or, better yet, relate them to your viewing partner. Revel in the widening of their eyes. Take delight in the stiffening demeanor of the overzealous docent. Moreover, take advantage of being physically present and walk around the artwork. This can help you notice details you may have initially missed and provide you with a new perspective on the piece. Consider the different angles and altitudes. Was this made to be viewed by someone of your height? Does it handle the overhead lights any differently? 

Becky Suss, Bathroom (Ming Green), 2016. Courtesy of Jack Shainman Gallery

Another benefit of dragging oneself out of the comfort of their den of decay is that museums are actually rather generous places. Exhibitions are deliberately structured to showcase a particular topic, movement, or period in history. Put simply, if you like one work in an exhibition, you’ll likely enjoy the surrounding art as well. Take, for example, the One Day at a Time: Manny Farber and Termite Art exhibition inside the Los Angeles’s Museum of Contemporary Art at the Geffen Center in 2018. It was inspired by the titular Farber and his 1962 essay “White Elephant Art vs. Termite Art”. He explains Termite Art as follows: 

…it is work in which the creators seem to have no ambitions towards gilt culture but are involved in a kind of squandering-beaverish endeavor that isn’t anywhere or for anything. A peculiar fact about termite tapeworm-fungus-moss art is that it goes always forward eating its own boundaries, and, likely as not, leaves nothing in its path other than signs of eager, industrious, unkempt activity (Faber, Film Culture, No. 27).  

What is daring about termite art is its straightforwardness. What you see is what you get. Its termite beauty lies in the “concentration on nailing down one moment without glamorizing it…the feeling that all is expendable, that it could be chopped up and flung down in a different arrangement without ruin” (Faber). This makes it perfect for the simple and enriching act of just looking.

Laura Owens, Untitled, 1997

Step Two: Observe

In person, you are able to examine the details of a work, such as brushstrokes, texture, and other intricacies that may not be visible or obvious in reproductions. This can give you a deeper understanding and appreciation of the artist's technique and style. Take, for example, Laura Owens Untitled, 1997. Owens was one of the approximately thirty artists chosen for the aforementioned 2018 exhibition, and with good reason. Her work is impulsive, chaotic, and delectable. It is executed in sweetly desultory manner; she devours sampled imagery, “from medieval tapestries to emojis—all translated to canvas via dazzling array of techniques, including gutsy brushstrokes, digital rendering, needlework, screen printing, and folksy collage” (Artist statement at MOCA). The result is a series of work that stirs the child within and stimulates a certain hunger at the tips of fingers. Yes, Untitled, 1997 may immediately bring the simplistic image of oceanic horizon, a clear sky, and some birds to mind. Hell, the painting may only be three black marks, four gray marks, a blue background, and a series of multicolored lines.

However, let’s just take a moment to look at the obvious: Pale pastel blue quietly covers the entire 96 x 120 inch canvas. Thick, spontaneous strokes of obsidian grace the panel at three points: the most prominent mark almost escaping the top edge of the upper right hand corner. This underlying bird-esque motif is explored in form: Two connected semicircles mimic the silhouette of a small winged creature. The size of the second circle was made smaller to create the illusion of distance and depth. Its meticulously airbrushed shadow lingers less than a centimeter away from the stroke’s inception point. The shadow brings attention to another haphazardly placed illusion of shade; its owner is only vaguely alluded to and far from what the artist has allowed the viewer to see. 

This, paired with the placement of the aforementioned mark, creates a sense of movement; physically and metaphorically. The eye naturally follows the black mark, its shadow, and the second shadow back and forth, back and forth until it creates the illusion of fluttering. The eye is then, almost as if released from the centripetal forces at work, catapulted perpendicularly from the center of Mark No. 1 to the middle right hand edge where a crisp, lone, black dollop hovers kinetically on the center plane; frozen mid-movement. Its weight is emphasized by its shadow which floats softly at its bottom left. The shadow is airbrushed more delicately than the previously mentioned ones and glows invertedly.

Untitled, 1997 detail

The viewer’s gaze is then swung to the far left side to the second largest black mark. Its allotted shadow parallels it perfectly and is the lightest of the trio. It’s exhaustingly executed; so lightly done that it may very well be a darker shade of the background’s pure Maya blue as opposed to its light gray hued colleagues. It radiates from its center and hums like a handheld Rothko. The density and weight of its partner juxtaposes it in a satisfying, echoing manner. The fixed thickness of the raven colored paint catches light on its highest edges which adds depth and dimensionality to the mark. The slick sheen of the high gloss medium contributes to this high relief impression.

Three thick lines of varying width lay slathered across the entire length of the canvas beneath the charismatic trio at the bottom of the plane. They’re stacked like descending steps and are assorted in order of width; the top cornflower blue mark being the thinnest of the three. The middle line resembles the color of a hydrangea grown in acidic earth; a slightly severe baby blue—the dense paint has cracked horizontally in some areas. The last layer is a deep blueberry blue and measures no less than two inches in height. Its edges evoke the image of a generously frosted sheet cake.

How much of that did you get by viewing it on your screen?

Step Three: Shut Up

And, yes, maybe you can easily do all of that. But here’s the kicker—you didn’t. And that’s okay. Most of humanity has the ability to create relatively similar looking human beings and that doesn’t invalidate anyone’s existence. Sure, some may be nicer to look at than others, but we can’t (or, rather, we shouldn’t) judge someone based solely on the pleasantness of their torso or the inherent seduction of their massive nose. In fact, it does everyone a disservice to forget that existence is a feat in it of itself.

The same goes for art. It is not only about beauty, or originality, or technique. It’s about the act of creating something instead of doing nothing. Because to stand in front of a painting, a video installation, or a pile of strategically-placed dirt—and stay there for more than a moment is anan opportunity; a chance to explore a universe you would have never experienced had the artist failed to manifest a mere thought into the physical realm. Appreciate the fact that this thought has become an entity; listen to what it has to say. Maybe it rambles. Perhaps it just looks back at you and blinks. Sometimes, it’ll murmur something as quiet yet profound as the snagging of light on a fleck of fiberglass. Appreciate the opportunity to empathize and analyze. The emotions you are left with after the conversation is over are entirely up to you.

Lastly, if you can, indeed, perfectly replicate an artwork, choose to feel inspired by your skills. Put them to use and accumulate fame and fortune. Maybe you won’t. Perhaps the original artist didn’t, either. Van Gogh only sold one painting within his lifetime, yet he completed approximately 2,100 works before he died. As a last request, I implore you to ask yourself why he bothered at all.